


Quick n' Dirty

by madrabbitgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabbles, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Non canon compliant, Protective John Watson, Vampire AU, Vampire John Watson, Vampire Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: “Did you bring us here to die?” John groaned.“Obviously,” Sherlock spat back.“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not,” John complained.((Vampire AU inspired by 3 random dialogue prompts found on Pinterest))
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 140





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadMags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/gifts).



> Half beta'd, not Brit picked, written purely as a pick-me-up from my current life. Gift for MadMags always.

“One day, just one day, I’m going to stay home where it’s warm and let you charge off by yourself,” John threatened. They were crouched down in between two shipping containers, watching for any sign on the docks. It was cold and foggy, with the threat of rain looming in the night sky, and John was miserably uncomfortable. 

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock whispered back. He wasn’t laughing, but there was a sarcastic humor lurking in his words. “Now, hush!” 

John had no problem doing that. There wasn’t much to say, honestly. Until the smugglers made their move, there was nothing to do. He knew Sherlock wasn’t even sure they were working out of that port and he was fairly certain that Sherlock hadn’t alerted the police of their intentions to observe the area for clues, which meant if they got caught it wouldn’t be fun. 

John loved it.

Anything to liven up his wretchedly boring existence. 

He let himself smile just a little bit to himself when he heard the rustling behind him. He stilled. Sherlock hadn’t noticed it, he was so intent on watching the boats. 

Well, now was as good a time as any for a snack, John reasoned.

He melted back into the shadows, following the sound. It was easy for him to blend in and skulking was second nature. He caught the man just as he was retreating, probably to alert his fellow smugglers that they were being spied on. 

Can’t have that now, can we?

Quickly, efficiently, he had the man pinned against the cool, rusted metal of another shipping container, holding him up by his throat. John’s tongue dabbed at his lower lip before running along one of his sharpened teeth. 

The man tried to make a noise, tried to scream for help when he realized John’s strong grip wasn’t loosening, which made the doctor shake his head and tut softly. Noise would alert the detective. He couldn’t snap the man’s neck, it would be a waste. 

Quick and dirty, then. John’s favorite.

He leaned forward and licked a stripe over the struggling man’s neck, tasting the salt and filth that lingered there, before sinking his teeth into soft, yielding flesh. The guy’s blood was hot with the struggle for life and it gave him so much more flavor. It was all John could do not to moan out loud. 

Soon enough, the man was slumped over into John’s arms, with John’s hand on the metal container, holding them both up. It was incredibly intimate, killing a man this way. Feeling every last thud of his laboring heart, the salt-sweet taste of life thick on John’s tongue. 

One last pull and it was all over. John lowered the man gently to the ground, licking his lips.

Well, he wouldn’t be telling anyone anything, would he?

Quite chuffed with himself, he turned around. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John swore, throwing a hand over his heart as though he were scared. To be fair, he hadn’t heard the detective come up behind him. The blood frenzy always left him vulnerable that way. How much had he seen? The detective quirked an eyebrow at him. “Erm, he was-” 

“We should leave. He wasn’t alone, and I doubt you’ll want to dispatch all of them in a similar fashion,” Sherlock said quietly. He didn’t look particularly disurbed.

“Yes, yes, of course,” John replied. He nodded to Sherlock to lead the way.

***

Nothing could ever be simple, could it? Sherlock had, in fact, called for backup, who arrived, but not before they were tied together with strong, industrial strength zip ties and locked in a shipping container by some criminals who were very upset at finding one of their own dead. John had a sizable cut on his forehead and he was annoyed about it.

“Did you bring us here to die?” John groaned. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock spat back. 

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not,” John complained. He hated head injuries. They were so uncomfortable. Sherlock was close and too warm, wriggling and shifting, trying to break their bonds. John could smell blood in the darkness. “Could you, um, not move for a few minutes?” 

“I can’t get us out if we’re tied together,” Sherlock said, petulance lingering in his words. John nodded.

“Yes, true, but you- You know what? Never mind.” John’s head was throbbing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t feel pain, he could, but his tolerance was higher than a human. Sherlock was worryingly quiet for a few long moments. He fretted about what Sherlock had seen, how much he’d witnessed before John turned around, and as the silence dragged on he couldn’t take it anymore. “You have questions?” 

“Several,” Sherlock replied.

“We have nothing else to do,” John prompted when none were asked. 

“Not an appropriate time. We might be discovered and I feel this is a conversation that shouldn’t be interrupted,” Sherlock said. John nodded again, despite being in the dark. 

“That’s fair.” He felt Sherlock start to writhe again. “You should, um, stop that.” 

“Am I making things difficult for you?” 

“A bit. I can smell it, you know. Also, I could, erm, probably break out faster than you,” John said, feeling his left hand start to twitch. It was a stress reaction ever since the initial injury happened so very long ago. “Not that I’m bragging. I’m stronger than most men, but less than certain types of bears.” That had been an awkward lesson to learn first hand. “If you know, you’re alright being trapped in a small container with me.” 

“Ah. Is there any reason I should be concerned any more than any other day of the week?” Sherlock asked.

John considered for a moment. He had just eaten, but bloodloss always made him peckish. “No, I think we’re alright.” 

“Then, please, by all means,” Sherlock said. The plastic ties were painful, but not impossible to snap, even if he’d been a human. It took him a minute to break them into pieces. He rubbed at his sore wrists.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Are your arms hurting? Did they hit you on the head at all? Do you-” 

“Yes, yes, John, I’m fine. Are you able to see in the dark? Or, perhaps, tear a hole in the wall?” Sherlock asked, sounding sarcastic. John almost growled.

“You didn’t want this conversation right now, as I recall,” John snapped. “I can’t tear a hole in a metal shipping container, you nutter. It doesn’t work that way.” 

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, and John could almost feel the eyeroll. “Can you see me?” 

“Yes, and frankly, I’m a little shocked at the fingers you’ve chosen. That sort of vulgarity is out of character for you and it only fuels my intuition that you’re concussed.” 

John should have been concerned that Sherlock didn’t immediately interrogate him when they returned home. He hurried off to his room without even taking off his coat, leaving him behind in a whirl of wool and nervous energy. It had been pretty late when they’d finally been found, or early, considering it was technically in the AM hours. Dawn had started to break when they’d finally caught a cab home. Sherlock had sneaked nervous looks at him but John didn’t want to bring up the sun myths while they weren’t alone. 

He had given into an impulse to reach across the cab and pat Sherlock’s hand once. It startled the detective, so John retreated again.

John made his way up to his bedroom, not because of some ancient requirement that he sleep while the sun was up, but because he was genuinely tired. He crawled into bed after locking his door, you know, just in case his flatmate tried to kill him, and was asleep as soon as his face hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the prompt "Did you bring us here to die" / "Obviously" 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half beta'd, not Brit picked, written purely as a pick-me-up from my current life. Gift for MadMags always.

To say that John was comatose until the next evening was an understatement. He’d been a heavy sleeper in life, half-death hadn’t changed that. His dreams were an uncomfortable, maddening stream of past life memories, which was annoying and left him feeling tired. Even more annoying, he’d found his door closed but unlocked, meaning one perpetually trying flatmate had managed to pick John’s lock without waking the sleeping vampire. He’d known that the lock wouldn’t provide any real protection against the slippery detective, but still, it was the principle of the thing. 

John grumbled and muttered under his breath as he made his way down the stairs. He glanced into the living room, noting that Sherlock was standing near the window, staring out at the street, pretending to ignore John. 

“Git,” John groused. He went into the kitchen in search of tea. He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock came in, watching from the doorway as he attempted to create some sense of normalcy by making beverages. 

After a long silence during which John filled the kettle, switched it on and popped two tea bags into two mugs, Sherlock spoke. “Sun?” 

“No effect whatsoever,” John replied, focused on refilling the sugar bowl from a larger container. 

“Food?” 

“Mostly for show. I do enjoy tea, though,” John said. He sighed, leaning back against the counter as he waited for water to boil. “And alcohol, obviously. It was all there was to drink when I was younger.” 

Sherlock was very good at controlling his bored facade, however John caught his eyes widening minutely as he nodded. “Sleep?” 

“Are you going to ask me anything that involves an actual sentence or are we feeling monosyllabic today?” John countered. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t see the point in wasting breath when you know why I’m asking,” Sherlock snapped.

“You wore me out yesterday. Between the case and work, I was just tired. It has nothing to do with it being daylight outside or any of that. You’ve seen me in the sun, you know that,” John replied. He heard the kettle switch off and he busied himself with splashes of milk and the usual obnoxious amount of sugar for Sherlock. 

“Blood?” 

Dietary questions always set John on edge and he hissed involuntarily. “Yes.” 

When he turned, he smirked. Sherlock looked annoyed. So one-word questions were okay but not one-word answers. John gathered their mugs and went into the living room, placing Sherlock’s next to his chair before settling down in his own with a sigh. He couldn’t be entirely sure, but he had the distinct impression that his attempt to carry on as normal was irritating Sherlock and he enjoyed that more than he probably should. 

It was another few moments before Sherlock spoke again. “Why?” 

“I swear to God, Sherlock, I’m not going to be some kind of experiment for you. I don’t know why we need blood, we just do,” John said. He picked up his mug and started blowing on it. Sherlock hesitated in the doorway some more, but he ended up in his chair, tapping his fingers somewhat nervously on his thigh. 

“How old are you?” he asked slowly.

“Why do you people always ask that? Would it matter?” John replied. Sherlock shrugged.

“You were the one demanging longer sentences,” he said.

“Deduce it,” John shot back. He scrubbed his face with one hand to conceal his own nerves. He’d never had this long of a conversation with someone about the particulars of his existence. His kind tended to be a solitary sort and their only rule, loosely enforced, was not to get found out. “You’ve lived with me long enough, I’m sure you’ve formulated some ideas while I was asleep today.” At that, Sherlock managed to look both arrogantly indifferent and sheepish. He had, then, been doing some research and theorizing. John would expect nothing less. Sherlock, under all of his detective layers, was also a scientist. 

“Am I in danger, knowing what I do about you?” Sherlock asked. John pursed his lips. 

“Am I in danger, knowing that you still managed to pick my lock and come into my room while I was asleep? Just an FYI, it would take more than a stake,” John advised him. There were also so many contradictions to whatever kept him alive, and it usually made his head ache to think about it for any length of time. For instance, he was stronger than a human but not stronger than some other predators. He was not unable to be hurt, but he was nearly impossible to kill. Shaking his head as though to banish the slightly cobwebbed thoughts in his mind, John put his mug to the side and leaned forward. “I would like to continue as we were. Is that going to be okay?” 

He never got an answer. The doorbell had already rung and Lestrade was charging his way up the stairs with another case for Sherlock. 

***

Blood. Everything always came back to blood, John thought. It was wretchedly predictable. He looked around at the pristine walls now coated in wasted blood. John was spattered in it and he couldn’t even lick it off in case the security cameras in the corners were real.

“Are you alright?” John asked, giving Sherlock a once over to make sure he was fine. He discovered that he had a strong preference for the way Sherlock looked drenched in red. It was a delicious color in him, especially with his insane curls mussed and sticking up every which way. John knew he had a few kinks, but he hadn’t realized one of them would be Sherlock, disheveled in a blood bank. 

“Fine. That was good,” Sherlock told him, breathing heavily. The killer had put up quite a fight, leaving the detective winded. 

“I rather thought so,” John agreed, looking down at the unconscious body thoughtfully. “Lestrade isn’t going to like this.” 

“It was self-defense, you can hardly be blamed.” Sherlock spit, trying to wipe the blood off his mouth. John shrugged. 

“Let’s hope Lestrade sees it that way. We should really find something to tie him up with before he comes around,” John said. He looked around them at the chaotic mess, trying to ignore Sherlock’s blood seeping from a wound on his head. “We’re going to need to get you cleaned up. Hopefully nothing has mingled in already. Next time we track a serial killer, could it be somewhere that’s not a blood donation center?” 

“You act as if I have control over that,” Sherlock said, and even though he wasn’t laughing out loud, John knew he was laughing inside. An impish look crossed Sherlock’s face and he barely held in a snort as he said, “You were just complaining last week that I never take you to dinner.” 

“Shut it!” John laughed. “It’s a crime scene, stop.” 

“You stop,” Sherlock said, giving into his laughter. Thankfully, they were interrupted by security and Lestrade’s team, with Lestrade bellowing, 

“Again?!” 

***

Sherlock’s hand found its way to John’s, tentatively tapping on the back of it in the dark cab ride home. John held very, very still, reminded of a venus flytrap waiting for the fly to come across it’s mouth. “This. This thing that you did.” 

“Yes, it was to comfort you,” John told him gently.

“I assumed so.”

“And you’re doing it now?” John asked, wondering why Sherlock was dancing his long, nimble fingers over John’s cool flesh. 

“Yes. Whatever possessed you to do it before, I would like it if it possessed you more often.” 

John smiled to himself like an idiot. “So, can I assume the answer to the earlier question is a yes?” 

He could see Sherlock’s face, better than Sherlock could see his, and it looked like Sherlock was smiling. “Perhaps a tentative yes. I’m assuming some things will need to change.”

They were pulling up to Baker Street and John realized Sherlock must have timed his hand tapping very carefully. He unlocked the door while Sherlock paid the cabbie and they both took the stairs home. When they were safely alone, John allowed himself to ask, “What sort of things?” 

“For instance, I’d prefer it if you didn’t… eat while we were on a case,” Sherlock said, lips tilting up in an almost smile. “Unless circumstances call for it.” 

“I suppose that’s a reasonable request.” John slid off his jacket slowly, hanging it up on the hook by the door. “And you’re not to come into my room while I’m sleeping anymore.” Unless invited, he added mentally. “You’re taking this more calmly than I thought you might. You have, essentially, a serial killer living under your roof. And not a very good one, at that.” 

Sherlock paused by the fireplace, running his fingers over his violin. “Am I to judge a tiger for hunting down an antelope? Or, perhaps, a shark for devouring a wounded seal? You are merely acting in accordance to your nature. I cannot ask you to change that. Besides, it would take ages to properly break in a new flatmate.” 

John snorted. “If you could find one.” 

Those full lips that he thought of more than he liked tilted upwards again. “Perhaps when I’m bored you’ll come up with something truly worth my time. It’ll be like a game.” 

At that, John let out a full laugh, shaking his head. “I am not going to purposefully go on a killing spree just so you have something to do between cases.” 

Sherlock gave him that crinkly-eyed smile he’d grown impossibly fond of. “Give it time. You might change your mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was: "Whatever possessed you to do that, I would like it if it possessed you more frequently".
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-d, not Brit picked, just for fun.

As Sherlock said, he could not judge a predator for taking down its prey. It would be changing the very nature of the beast to do so, which allowed John a sort of freedom while living with the Great Detective. Unfortunately for John, this was a two-way street. Yes, John could theoretically consume anything he needed to in order to survive but it also meant that asking Sherlock not to experiment, despite his earlier promises, was very stupid indeed. Can’t change a beast’s nature, after all. 

“Sherlock! I am not falling for that again,” John snapped angrily. He glared up at his friend, who was wearing an innocent expression and holding a mug. “I can smell it.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock sniffed, pretending to be hurt. “I merely thought-” 

“You merely think I’m an idiot. Not again,” John told him. “Not after last time.” 

Sherlock dropped all pretenses and took the mug back into the kitchen. “I was curious.” 

“Of course you were,” John grumbled. He continued to tap with single digits at his blog, writing up the most recent case. It was dangerous to keep a blog, really, especially as the crime fighting duo attracted more and more attention. It would be dangerous to have his face be well known but at the same time, humans had a notoriously short memory. (He hoped. He had no wish for Sherlock to discover his brief silent film career. What a lark that had been.) 

Or that one portrait. God help him, hopefully that was burned and lost for all time. 

John sighed and looked at what he’d managed to write about the case. They’d had a long weekend in the house with nothing on, which would usually be a perfect time to get some writing done, but even John was starting to get a bit stir crazy (of the two of them, Sherlock was always bored first). The words were starting to run together and John shook his head, blinking the white page back into focus. He wasn’t surprised Sherlock resorted to trying to poison him. Another few days and he might have considered taking it just for giggles.

“I’m going to go out,” John sighed, closing his laptop and setting it to the side. “Try not to blow up the flat while I’m gone.” 

He saw Sherlock pause out of the corner of his eyes. He turned to look at the detective, frozen where he was dumping the tea down the drain. 

“Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m just going for a walk. Just, you know, for a bit,” John said. He made a point of stretching casually. “Don’t wait up.” 

He snagged his jacket off the hook and disappeared down the stairs, quick but a little loud so as to keep up the human charade for his flatmate. He wondered how long they could keep going down this path. Eventually the vampire thing was going to bother Sherlock, despite his assurances. He couldn’t keep pretending it was okay that John was out satisfying his thirst every so often. Especially when bodies started to appear. 

It had been too long already.

John weighed his options as he wandered. Bars were easiest. Crushes of bodies together, sometimes loud music to cover any conversations and people were much more pliable when intoxicated. If he went to a bar, though, he’d rather not go to one close to home, that was always a bad idea. Meal options were so scarce these days. 

Being on the prowl with Sherlock knowing about John’s true nature was full of both negative and positive excitement. The added layer of danger was, of course, part of the positive. Say John killed someone and was sloppy about it- Sherlock would know it was him and the possibility he might be caught- well, that was interesting. It made it more of a game. After a few decades, it was easy to grow bored so John was always happy for a new set of rules, a new challenge. Still, the pressure of someone knowing about him (and, to be honest, that probably meant Mycroft either knew or would somehow figure it out very soon), that was a safety concern. 

He ended up in a sketchy, loud bar he felt sure he was too old to be in. The crowd was young and out to have a good time. This wasn't the nurse-your-beer crowd, this was the drink-to-get-plastered crowd. John ordered a drink from the bar, tucking himself into a corner against a wall, and scanned the room. He felt restless. He didn’t know what he was in the mood for. There was one young woman with a group of people but she was standing slightly apart from them. John watched her for a few minutes. She was the ‘ugly’ friend, it seemed. Of course, no one would have ever said that to her, and actually she wasn’t unattractive, but she was standing with a younger, prettier girl that was chatting up two gentlemen. The two men were more interested in the pretty girl than anything the deemed ‘ugly’ girl had to say, and so she was sipping her drink and attempting to look uninterested. He could see the disappointment on her face.

She might go unnoticed if he could convince her to slip into the toilet with him. 

Just as he was about to make his move, a tall, dark figure blocked him in, herding him back against the wall. 

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock told him. He motioned for the bartender.

“I’m going to kill you,” John muttered. He sipped his drink. “Cockblocker.” 

“That wasn’t what you were looking for,” Sherlock snickered. He ordered himself a drink. “You’d think for as old as you are you’d be better at reading people. Her short friend is in love with her. She’s only pulling the two men as an excuse. If you took the taller one, she’d either want to join in or she’d come and interrupt you. It’d be over in all of ten minutes.” 

“You don’t know that,” John said, pursing his lips. “You followed me?” 

“Yes, and you didn’t notice. Aren’t you supposed to possess supernatural abilities? I’m quite disappointed,” Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes.

“I have a supernatural level of patience for you,” he muttered. The taller man laughed. 

“This isn’t your usual sort of spot,” Sherlock observed, wrapping his long fingers around the glass that was set in front of him. 

“I just wanted to try something new,” John lied. He knew full well that had nothing to do with it. “Not to mention I didn’t think you’d follow me halfway across the city.” 

“Honesty, John. If we’re going to continue on, we’re going to have to trust each other,” Sherlock told him. He took a swig of his drink. “You could have just said you were hungry.” 

“It’s not something you discuss, is it?” John asked, feeling rather shocked at how blasé Sherlock seemed to be acting. It reminded him of the time Donovan claimed the detective ‘got off’ on crimes. Sherlock shrugged. 

“Better to help you than have you arrested for something,” Sherlock murmured with a grin. He leaned closer to John, staring hard into John’s eyes. He let his gaze drag down to John’s lips and then back up again. “I’d have to break in a whole new doctor.” 

“Git. Alright, alright, I can do this another time. Let’s go back home,” John said. They both downed the remainder of their beverages and headed for the door. Sherlock kept a hand on John’s shoulder as they worked their way out, pushing through the crowd of young bodies dancing and drinking and laughing. Sherlock’s hand remained in place even when they were back on the street and, rather than call a cab, he steered them down the sidewalk, preferring to walk instead of ride. John frowned. 

“What are you-?” 

“Oh, just gathering data,” Sherlock said. He let a few minutes pass in silence and then he spoke again. “Is killing a requirement?” 

John started, but then admonished himself for his own surprise. It was Sherlock, after all. His curiosity often lead him to asking extremely frank and offensive questions. He wouldn’t have it any other way. “Jesus, Sherlock.” 

“I want to know.” 

“Of course you do,” John huffed. Sherlock’s hand slipped briefly to squeeze the back of John’s neck and then slid over to the other shoulder, keeping him close. “Not always. I wasn’t going to tonight, I think. What are you doing?” 

Sherlock ignored him. “You think?” 

“It’s not exact. Sometimes… sometimes you lose yourself,” John admitted, shrugging. “It’s very instinctual.” 

“It looked intimate,” Sherlock said. John hummed and nodded. 

“I guess so. It can be,” John allowed.

“So, it isn’t something you could practice on a friend?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively. John halted, staring up at Sherlock. 

“Are you offering?” 

Sherlock shrugged. 

“God, you’re infuriating,” John said, but he meant it fondly. He continued walking. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss you or shove you off a bridge.” 

“Do I get to pick?”

This time, the shock John felt was an allowable reaction. He turned slowly to stare back at his flatmate, whose shadowy face held a heat that had never been there before. John wet his lips. “What?” 

“Whether I get kissed or shoved off a bridge. Do I get to pick?” 

He had to be joking, John thought. He snored. “Sure, Sherlock. You get to pick.”

“Kissing would be preferable to potential impact injuries. Shall we start now?” Sherlock took a step forward towards John, who countered with a few steps back. There was no way the detective was serious, was there?

“Are you- Are you- What are you doing?” John yelped.

“I should think it quite obvious,” Sherlock said, and this time John didn’t shy away when he stepped closer. He leaned in, watching John’s expressions intently. “I’m offering myself to you. Call it an experiment, if it makes you feel better.” 

“There’s so much wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to start unpacking,” John replied, blinking rapidly. Of all the ways he’d imagined anything physical with Sherlock, having him say something as simple as ‘shall we start now’ had not occurred to him. 

“What? Why is that wrong?” Sherlock probed. 

“Oh, um, so many reasons? I’ll start with the phrase ‘experiment’, which is not exactly something I want to hear when- when-” John floundered, frustrated. “When I’m being propositioned? Also, what are you offering? Because I’m not sure if you’re saying you want to snog or be my dinner.” 

“You might want to keep your voice down, I think I just saw that camera tilt in our direction. You’d think he’d have something more interesting to do than spy on me at night,” Sherlock said, but his lips were tilted up in humor. “Which would you prefer? Perhaps I’m offering both.” 

“This is hardly sexy,” John said, but they both knew it was a lie. This was incredibly sexy. 

Horrified, John watched as Sherlock considered that. Really, out of the two of them, Sherlock should’ve been the vampire. He was the tall dark mystery shrouded in expensive wool and violin music. He was the graceful one, the one that seemed to glow with magic in the shadowy streets, the one who brooded worse than a Byronic hero. When he spoke, his voice was pitched insanely low and deep, rumbling seductively. “I could make it sexy.” 

John groaned, casting his eyes up to the sky. Sherlock Holmes was going to be the death of him. “Why would you want to?” 

“You need something, I can provide it. Yes, I am curious, however-” Sherlock shrugged, unable to come up with the words, it seemed. “It’s something I wished to do before I knew. Now, there is danger involved, and the idea has become rather more…,” his expression turned devious, “delicious.” 

John stared at Sherlock, wondering if he meant what he was saying. How had they gone from tapping each other’s hands to- to this? They were leaning so close to each other, and Sherlock seemed so, so sincere. John sucked in a breath. “No.” 

Sherlock’s lips tilted up. “Yes.” 

John blinked, but he didn’t pull away. “Since when?”

“You’re not the most observant man,” Sherlock teased quietly, before leaning in and slotting their mouths together. John moaned, but the moan turned into a frustrated growl. He pulled back and then surged up, chasing Sherlock’s lips once more. He was met with an enthusiastic mouth and even more enthusiastic tongue. Sherlock was warm, succulent and-

“Stop,” John said, pulling back again. He glanced around them, looking for an appropriate filthy dark corner. Sherlock grinned at him and pulled, positioning them in a dark alley with John’s back against the wall. John shook his head and flipped them, letting the detective hit the brick with just a little too much force so he was breathless, made even further so when John claimed his lips again. 

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard Sherlock whimper. 

Just briefly. Just a little bit. 

John nipped at those full lips he’d stared at for too long before licking down, taking little bites at the column of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock moaned, and then snickered before pulling John tight. It was a battle to love this man. Sherlock’s voice was hot in John’s ear. 

“Could be dangerous.”

A joke between them that had John biting, claiming what he wanted, and drinking deep.

***

“You’re mad,” John huffed later. There had been the alley. Then again, when they’d finally decided to call a taxi only to feel each other up in the back seat. Then, of course, there had to be Sherlock’s bed because that was the end goal of such an offer, wasn’t it? The sheets were cooling and damp, but John wasn’t uncomfortable. “Utterly and completely mad.”

“But very good at blow jobs,” Sherlock snickered, head on John’s chest. He yawned, worn out from all the activity, and peppered in more than one bite mark. 

“Yes,” John laughed, patting his back. “Very good at blow jobs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the prompt "I don't know whether to kiss you or push you off a bridge" / "Can I pick?"
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please check out my other works. 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please check out my other works.


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